


enough of you to dull the pain

by SatelliteStars



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Canon Disabled Character, Depression, Friends With Benefits, Humor, M/M, Makeouts as therapy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sort Of, Supportive Avengers, Tony/Bucky friendship makes me happy soothes the soul yknow, cuddling as therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-17 17:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16100579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatelliteStars/pseuds/SatelliteStars
Summary: Growing up, he’d heard his grandfather talk about how some guys just aren’t the same after they’ve served in a war. He used to tell stories about friends who’d gotten so bad they couldn’t leave the house, about how war changes a person in ways you couldn’t fully understand unless you’d been in one.Bucky thinks he understands now.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to anyone who reads this. It's been in the works for a really long time, and I've decided to post it in sections just because it's a thing i've really enjoyed writing, and I hope you enjoy reading it. Much love.

Bucky didn’t think he’d ever end up like this, but here he is: waking up at half-past-three in the morning, struggling to catch his breath, using his remaining arm to Google how to stop night terrors. 

Growing up, he’d heard his grandfather talk about how some guys just aren’t the same after they’ve served in a war. He used to tell stories about friends who’d gotten so bad they couldn’t leave the house, about how war changes a person in ways you couldn’t fully understand unless you’d been in one. 

Bucky thinks he understands now. 

When he enlisted, he’d sworn to himself that he was never going to be like those guys: pathetic and weak and helpless, but sitting here, fighting off tears and feeling scared of his own memories, he thinks that he’s broken his own promise.

The results for his search are pretty much fruitless. All that comes up on the first couple pages are articles on how parents can stop their children’s nightmares, and he doesn’t think that having lavender scented candles by his bed will stop him from seeing his friends’ severed limbs flying in the air as their screams of terror startle him out of sleep every night. 

He gets himself out of bed. He struggles to shrug on a hoodie that is definitely overdue for a wash, and goes to his bathroom to try and piss away the remnants of the memory. 

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he’s washing his hand and he almost doesn’t recognize himself. His hair is unkempt, he’d already known that, but he hadn’t yet realized just how far he’s let himself go. He’s definitely skinnier than he remembers, so much so that the hoodie he wears practically swallows him whole. He pushes himself closer to the mirror, and brings his hand up to his face to lightly press on his sunken cheekbones and sharply defined jawline. He doesn’t miss the way the bags that seem to permanently reside under his eyes have become even darker than he thought possible, almost appearing to be purple. 

He is a shell of who he used to be. 

He takes the mirror down and puts it into the bathroom closet. 

\---- 

Steve: its 2:30 am why are you liking my instagram pictures

Bucky: its 230 why are u still awake 

Steve: Nightmares? 

Bucky: are they still called nightmares if theyre just memories? 

Steve: anything i can do to help? 

Bucky: afraid not. 

Steve: I’m always here for you. 

Steve: Next time, text me. My sleeping schedule is also kinda fucked. I usually don’t get to bed until around three ish. 

Bucky: I’ll keep that in mind. 

Bucky: thank you.

Steve: I love you, man. We all do.

Bucky doesn’t respond.

\----

“James,” Tabitha, his therapist, says patiently. “I understand that this is hard to talk about, but processing trauma is the first step to recovery.” 

Bucky shakes his head. He traces the pattern of the pillow in his lap with a distracted finger. “I can’t,” He tells her. 

“Alright,” She concedes. “Let’s talk about something else, then. How have you been doing recently? Have you settled back in well?” 

Bucky shrugs. “I guess.” 

“And how about your friends?” Tabitha asks while she quickly writes something down on her clipboard. “Are they supportive of you?” 

“They try to be,” Bucky says. “There isn’t much they can do, though. ‘M a little bit reclusive these days.” 

“What do you mean by ‘reclusive’?” She prods. 

“I don’t get out much,” He explains, embarrassed. “Mostly just when I need food, or when I have to take the trash out. They talk about coming over and visiting me sometimes - you know, empty plans - but they pretty much never do. I think I just kinda… depress them.” 

“Why would you think that?” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” He replies rhetorically, finally making eye contact with her for the first time this session. “I’m a mess. Half the time I can barely hold a conversation because I zone out so much. I can’t take care of myself the way other people can anymore. I see a therapist twice a week and a psychiatrist once a month. I have to take a handful of pills every day just so that I don’t go completely out of my own head. If you had to hang around someone like me, wouldn’t you be just a little bit bummed out, too?” 

“James,” She stresses in what is probably supposed to be a calming voice. “Firstly, dissociation is completely normal for someone who’s been through as much as you have. There are grounding techniques we can go over in your next session, if you’d like. Second, you aren’t crazy, or going crazy, or anything like that. You’ve been through a traumatic experience, and, while it may be hard to believe, it may not always be like this if we just keep working towards recovery. It won’t be easy, but-” 

“Why the fuck do you keep saying we?” Bucky interrupts. “This isn’t a team effort. You aren’t recovering from anything. You’re just the one I’m paying to make sure I don’t kill myself before-” 

Bucky doesn’t realize he’s been yelling until he looks at her closely enough to notice the tears starting to well up in her eyes. The concentrated grip on her pen has her knuckles turning white. 

“I-” He starts, losing his words abruptly. “I am… so sorry, I don’t-” 

“This is okay,” She assures him, but the shakiness of her voice betrays the sentiment. “You have the right to be angry. The shit you’ve gone through already, and what you have ahead of you, is enough to make anyone upset.” 

“I didn’t need to take it out on you.” 

“No,” She agrees hesitantly. “But you did need to get it out. You didn’t mean it, I know that. You’re sorry. This is why processing is important. Do you see that now?” 

Bucky nods. “I’m sorry,” He repeats. 

She looks up at the clock. “Our session is almost over. Only eight minutes left,” Bucky also glances at the clock to check her accuracy. Sure enough, it reads 1:22. “Would you like to play cards until our time’s up?” 

“Cards?” Bucky asks, confused. “Here I was, thinking I’m at a shrink, when all this time I’m at a casino.” 

“I have a few patients who find it hard to talk about certain things sometimes,” She explains, reaching for the deck in a drawer beside her. “Having something else to focus on while they talk can help.” 

“Like my pillow thing?”

“Something like that, yeah.” She confirms. “You know how to play ‘Speed’?” 

\----

Steve should be over any minute now. 

Bucky’s been preparing himself for over an hour. He hasn’t talked to anyone face-to-face in six days, or even made any sounds but screams in four, and he doesn’t know if he can do it. He misses his friends (Steve in particular), but in the two months since he’s gotten back, seeing them has felt far too scary. Nothing is familiar anymore. Nothing is safe.

There’s a knock on the door. His heart stutters. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greets with a warm smile when Bucky opens the door. 

“Steve, hi,” Bucky replies. His voice is hoarse, but he figures that’s to be expected. 

“Mind if I come in?” Steve asks, pulling Bucky out of his own thoughts. 

“Shit. Uh, yeah, go ahead.” Bucky props the door open wider and Steve lets himself through. 

“Nice place,” Steve compliments, taking his shoes off and putting them by the fridge. It’s a habit he’d had when they lived together before Bucky was shipped off to basic. It’s nice to see that some things don’t change. “I haven’t been here since you moved in. Glad to see that you have, like, actual furniture here now.” 

“A man cannot live on lawn chairs alone. Pretty sure that’s in the Bible somewhere.” Bucky tries to remember the way he used to joke and attempts to copy that delivery, and, to his surprise, Steve actually laughs. Bucky lets himself smile and relax just the smallest bit. “So, uh, what’s with the duffel bag?” 

“Oh!” Steve exclaims. “Yeah, that. I was going to ask you if I could stay the night, but I didn’t have time. So, instead, I just brought my bag over in case you said yes.” 

“Steve…” Bucky says awkwardly. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea. Nighttime isn’t exactly peaceful around here.” 

“About that,” Steve starts. “I was reading up on PTSD and, you know, nightmare related stuff, and apparently a lot of people say they sleep better when someone’s with them at night.” 

“That’s a pretty big risk, there, pal. I could be absolutely fine, but there’s still an infinitely larger possibility I’ll try and choke you in your sleep.” 

“I’ll sleep on the couch, then,” Steve counters. “Come on, Bucky. I understand- I mean, I know that you aren’t the same anymore. I get that, I really do. But I don’t care. I’ll get to know you all over again, if that’s what I have to do. I miss having my best friend around.” 

Bucky thinks about this for a few seconds, weighs over the pros and cons in his head. Every bad thing that could possibly happen tonight runs through his head all at once and it’s almost enough to make him say no and leave it at that. But then, he hears Tabitha’s voice in his mind telling him that he needs a support system. He thinks about all that adapting shit she’s always talking about, and thinks that maybe this could be a step in the right direction. 

“Yes,” He says, still a little unsure of himself but ultimately decided. Then, upon realizing that nobody says yes in informal settings anymore, he edits himself. “Yeah, I mean. You can stay the night.” 

Steve is beaming up at Bucky. He goes over to hug his best friend for the first time in over a year, and Jesus, how could Bucky forget how tiny he is? 

“I thought you were bigger,” Steve says, taking in the way that his frail arms can now wrap tightly around Bucky’s torso in a way they never could before. 

“I probably was,” Bucky says nonchalantly, slowly letting himself pull away from the most physical contact he’s had in almost three months even though part of him just wants to stay there forever. “I’ve lost a little weight since coming back. Tabitha says it’s common.” 

“Who’s Tabitha?” Steve asks curiously. He pulls his hands away quickly, almost as if he’s been burned. It hurts a little bit. 

“She’s, um, my shrink,” Bucky admits bashfully. “I gotta have one of those now.” 

“Your psychiatrist?” 

“Therapist, actually,” Bucky clarifies. “My psychiatrist’s name is Jeremy.” 

“Oh,” Steve says awkwardly, looking out of place in that way he always seemed to. He’s never looked that way around Bucky before. “Do you like them?” 

“We can talk about other things besides how shitty things’ve been for me lately, you know,” Bucky evades, sitting on the couch. Steve sits down next to him, too far away. “Like, for example, how are Nat and the gang?”

“They’re…” He trails off, just looking at Bucky for a moment, but then he blinks and seems to come back to himself. “They’re doing pretty well. Nat and Clint finally got together.” 

“Yeah? Was wondering when they would,” Bucky muses. “Glad they finally got their shit together.” The longer he talks, the easier it is for him to pretend that he’s something other than a disorder-ridden sorry excuse for a twenty-six year old. 

“They miss you,” Steve reveals. “A lot.” 

Bucky shakes his head and gives a sad smile. “Nah, they don’t,” He says, because it’s true. They don’t miss him, they miss Bucky. They miss carefree, flirtatious, happy Bucky. They want no part of this.

“Of course they do. Buck, they’re your friends.” 

Bucky doesn’t want to fight about this. He doesn’t want to waste a single second of the precious time with Steve he’s missed so much in the last two years arguing, because he never knows when he and his brain will be agreeing enough to let it happen again. So, he does what Steve almost never does: he drops it. 

“Okay,” He says in what he’s hoping is a convincing voice. He then continues on to do something else Steve almost never does: he lies. “I’ll talk to Sam sometime about getting drinks, I guess.”

Steve is beaming once again. “He’d love that.” 

They’re making eye contact and it’s uncomfortable and way too intimate and if it goes on any longer Bucky’s going to panic. He looks at the wall clock that’s been running ten minutes too fast since he moved in. It’s 10:51. 

“It’s, uh, getting a little late,” Bucky says, standing and stretching just so he has an excuse to not look at Steve. “I think I’ll go to bed now. If you can’t sleep, TV remote is right over here. Movies are in the cabinet. Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen.” 

“Oh. Thanks.” Steve says quietly. “Goodnight, Buck.” 

“Night.”

-

He’s not going to make it. He’s moving too slowly to get anywhere near Steve, who so desperately needs his help at this moment. 

He’s running as fast as he can - he swears, Steve, he’s trying - but the quicksand underneath his feet ensures that with every step he sinks deeper and deeper into the pit that he’s digging for himself. He stumbles and falls onto his knees, gets sand under his fingernails and in his teeth as he tries to claw himself back up to no avail. 

“You’re giving up?” Steve yells at him. His body is attached to a pole, ready to be cut in half, but his voice rings loud right next to Bucky’s left ear. “Huh, Buck? Giving up on me again? Go ahead and sink, let yourself go. Leaving is what you do best, right?” 

“No, Steve, please, you know I-” 

“Go, Bucky! Leave me here to rot, just like you left when you-” 

-

He jerks awake. He’s in his bed. He can’t breathe. 

He can’t see Steve. 

I let him die he’s gone I can’t ever see him he’s gone forever and it’s all my fucking fault I’m such a-

“Bucky! Shit, oh my god. Are you okay?” Steve is by his side holding his right shoulder, but he can’t be because Steve is dead I killed Steve I left him alone and he’s dead now he’s- 

“Buck, hey, I’m right here, okay? You need to breathe, Buck, you aren’t breathing. Can you try and breathe with me?” Steve asks. He guides Bucky’s hand to his own chest as he takes his own deep breaths. Vaguely, Bucky remembers that Steve has asthma and that doing this for a long time could send him into an attack, so he shakes his head and removes his hand from Steve’s boney rib cage and onto his own. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Steve mutters. He sounds helpless, but he sounds so undeniably real that Bucky opens his eyes and takes in one gasping breath as he drinks in Steve’s worried image. 

He sits like that, gasping and shaking, for God knows how long. Steve stays the whole time, not touching, but tentatively watching. 

“I’m sorry,” He says when his breathing patterns are only slightly quicker than what is normal. “I didn’t mean to-” 

“It’s not your fault,” Steve says immediately. “Do you need anything? Water, or…” 

“I’m good. Can you just-” Bucky stops himself short. 

“No, yeah, what do you need? I’ll get it.” 

“Could you-” Bucky stops again. He swallows, like the flex of his throat muscles is gonna give him courage. “Could you maybe stay? Just… just for a little while. Then you can go, if you want. You can go home, even, I wouldn’t judge you. I know that I’m kind of… a lot to deal with these days.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” Steve says firmly, in that stupid stubborn voice of his. “Where do you want me?” 

“A-anywhere? Wherever you can get comfortable.” Bucky scoots over more to the right side of the bed, lets his remaining arm teeter on the edge while Steve scoots in behind him. 

“Is here good?” Steve asks patiently. He’s at least a foot away from Bucky. He must be laying on the very edge of the mattress; there’s no way he’s comfortable like that. 

“The touching doesn’t bother me,” Bucky says instead of directly answering, figuring this is what he should tell Steve anyway. “It’s kind of nice, actually. I’m not going to have another damn p-panic attack because my best friend slept an inch too close to me.” 

“I don’t know what you’re comfortable with anymore, Buck,” Steve points out. “I don’t know what you’ve been through. I don’t want to do something out of habit and accidentally make you…” 

“Yeah.” Bucky says knowingly. “I’ll- I’ll tell you if I don’t like something, okay? I’m not completely helpless. For now, just…” 

“Okay,” Steve agrees. He scoots himself a little closer. “This good enough?” 

“Y-you can come closer, if you want to.” 

Steve scoots the tiniest bit closer. Bucky can feel the chill of Steve’s big toe lightly pressed against his calf. “Good?” 

And Bucky doesn’t want to test his luck and ask Steve to come any closer than he’s comfortable with, so he stays quiet. He bites his lip, even, just to make sure. 

“Oh.” Steve says, as if he’s realizing something. Then, he presses himself up to Bucky completely, scooting himself up on his pillow a few inches so he can properly be the big spoon. “This what you want?” 

And Bucky would be convinced that this was a dream if it weren’t so pleasant. Instead of answering verbally, he just lets himself relax back into where their bodies curve together. Steve gingerly wraps his arms around Bucky’s middle. 

“Goodnight, Buck.” 

“Thank you.” 

-

Bucky’s awake first. He has to remind himself immediately after he becomes conscious of what happened last night so that the panic doesn’t set in. He is safe. He is with Steve. 

He is hungry. 

As quietly as he can, he removes himself from the loose grasp Steve’s sleeping arms have maintained on his waist and stands up to stretch. Steve makes a sound, a tired sort of whine, before he turns over in the bed and curls in on himself. 

Stretching with one arm is an interesting feeling when you still have most of your nerve endings. As Bucky reaches down to touch his toes, he feels the fingers on his left hand wiggle and pull along with his right ones. Phantom limb, his doctor had called it. Bucky thinks the name is pretty badass; like he’s one-fourth of a human ghost story. 

When his bones no longer creak and pop, he goes into his kitchen in search of coffee and sustainable food. After he’s started a pot, he looks in his fridge: milk, eggs, and beer. The keys to a balanced diet. 

He doesn’t have the energy to cook anything, as much as he’d like to for Steve, so he pulls out the milk and grabs a box of cereal from the top of the fridge, along with a bowl and spoon from the dishwasher. He’s in the middle of pouring himself some when Steve walks in, messy hair and sleep-plumped lips, just the way he used to look. It’s familiar. It’s new. 

“Morning, Buck,” Steve greets sleepily. 

“Hey, there,” Bucky replies. “I got cereal. Hope you’re okay with Honey Bunches of Oats.” 

“Yeah, that’s good. What’re you brewin’?” 

They talk for a few minutes about everything that isn’t last night until Steve sits across from him, silent as he chews, and Bucky suddenly can’t take it. 

“I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t want that to happen while you were here.” 

Steve swallows before he talks, because Sarah Rogers raised a boy with manners. “You know, pal, somethin’ tells me you don’t want that to happen ever. You shouldn’t apologize for something that you can’t help.” 

“I know, but, still. I know it’s not a fun thing to have to deal with.” 

“It’s not a problem. I swear. It was kind of interesting, the role reversal.” He takes another bite of his cereal. 

“What?” Bucky asks. 

“When we lived together, you spent most of your nights up taking care of me. Now, it’s my turn to return the favor.” 

“Oh,” Bucky says for lack of anything else to say. Steve smiles at him. 

\----

It sort of becomes a thing, after that night. 

Bucky will wake up, terrified, almost every single night, but instead of punching holes through his walls or crying until he can’t breathe, he texts Steve. 

Bucky: hey.

Bucky: You awake?

(His text is always the same. He never gives too much away.)

Sometimes, Steve won’t reply. But he does, most of the time. 

Steve: yeah. You okay? 

Bucky: Couldnt sleep.

Steve: want me to come over?

Steve, as it turns out, lives a mere two blocks away - something Bucky would’ve already known if he’d tried to leave his house in the past two months. 

Bucky: you don’t have to. 

Steve: be there in 10.

For the first few times, Steve tries to cuddle Bucky back to sleep, like he did that first night. But sometimes the dreams are so vivid that Bucky can hardly stand to be touched, so Steve comes up with other distractions. 

On this night in particular, Steve brings over musicals. 

“Guys and Dolls, Mamma Mia, Rent, and Into the Woods. Take your pick.” He presents proudly. Bucky smiles, genuinely smiles, as he plucks Into the Woods from Steve’s hands and places it into his DVD player. 

“Excellent choice,” Steve commends him. “This one’s my favorite.” 

Bucky nods, not yet to the point of the aftermath where he can be verbal, and cuddles down comfortably into Steve’s side. Their (dwindling, but still existent) size difference ensures that Bucky always has to be extra careful when lying on Steve. Steve says he’ll be fine, Bucky won’t break him, but Bucky knows how soft Steve’s bones are and doesn’t feel like taking the risk. 

This works, most nights: the movies, the distractions, all of it.

But sometimes. 

Sometimes he needs more. 

Sometimes he shakes so hard he rattles his bed, or sometimes he pulls at his hair until strands come out and tangle on his fingers. Sometimes he feels it again, the arm being torn away from him, and all he can do is wince and scream into his pillow until he goes hoarse. These are the nights when Steve cries along with him, scared for his best friend, and Bucky’s mind can’t decide if he wants him closer than is possible or if he wants to push him away, tell him never to come back. 

“Steve, I-” Bucky says on one of these nights. Tonight is a ‘closer than possible’ night, and Steve is lying in Bucky’s lap, using one of his hands to reach back and soothingly tangle his fingers into Bucky’s long hair. 

“Yeah?” Steve asks, earnest to help

“Can you- please, I mean, just-” Bucky sighs, frustrated with himself and his inability to communicate. 

“It’s okay, Buck. Think of what you wanna say first, plan it out in your head.” Steve is always so goddamned patient with him in a way Bucky is sure he’d never be able to be if the situation were reversed. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, closes his eyes as he exhales. “Turn around, p-please.” 

Steve stops the calming motion of his hand. Bucky hasn’t ever asked for this, but Steve is willing to give it to him. He turns so that he’s straddling Bucky’s lap, laying his head against Bucky’s shoulder, breathing on his neck. 

“Like this?” Steve asks lightly. 

Bucky nods vigorously. He fists his hand into the back of Steve’s t-shirt and holds him impossibly nearer. Steve, unsure of what else to do, wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck. His hands rest on the headboard above them. 

“This is weird, I’m sorry-” Bucky apologizes (something he seems to do so often these days) and starts helping Steve off his lap. 

“No, it’s not. It’s okay, Buck, I promise.” Steve assures him. He grounds him, keeps him firmly in place, until Bucky starts to relax again. 

This is the worst it’s been in a long time. Bucky doesn’t usually need this much, but tonight it isn’t enough for him. He’s crying dry tears now, just helplessly watching his chest heave and shake with them as he tries and fails to calm down. 

Steve pulls back so he can look at Bucky. Steve looks exhausted. Bucky can’t believe he’s done this to him, how can he be so selfish? Steve doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t need this. He’s got enough of his own health problems to deal with without piling on all of Bucky’s shit, too. 

“Can I try something?” Steve asks tentatively, pulling Bucky out of his own head. Bucky nods. “Alright, just- tell me if you want me to stop. Or push me away, or something. I don’t care, just don’t let me go on if it doesn’t help you.” 

Bucky’s confused for a moment, but then Steve is leaning in close to him, to his face, to his lips, and then his eyes are closing and everything becomes clear when Steve’s soft, chapped mouth is pressed softly to Bucky’s. 

It’s perfect. It’s not enough. He chases it, leans into Steve with a fierceness and a need, but neither of them open their mouths to deepen it. This, the closeness of it, is all Bucky needs for now. 

Steve scoots himself closer so that they’re perfectly chest-to-chest (or, more accurately, chest-to-shoulder - goddamned height difference) and Bucky gasps with it. Steve’s hands move slowly back up to Bucky’s hair and that’s it, that’s enough for him to decide that he does need more than this. He moves his tongue along Steve’s lower lip and hopes that he’s remembering how to do this correctly. Steve’s mouth opens the slightest bit and Bucky’s lips slide between them into that perfect, precious space. 

This goes on for almost an entire minute before Bucky remembers that he needs air. As soon as that thought crosses his mind, it’s immediately followed by the realization that Steve needs air more, he has asthma, he’s going to have an attack, and he pulls away abruptly. He searches Steve’s face for any signs of an oncoming attack, but he sees none. Just the normal shortness of breath that always comes with kissing. 

“Your inhaler,” Bucky whispers. 

“Living room,” Steve says back. He presses their foreheads together. 

“You…” Bucky says hesitantly. “You need to bring it in here. Just in case.” 

“Gonna be fine,” Steve argues. 

“You always say that,” Bucky points out. “And you’re usually not.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Steve asks. “If I leave, I mean.” 

Bucky nods. He steals another chaste kiss. “Can’t let you stop breathing on me, Stevie.” 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, slowly pulling away. “Okay.” 

“I’m gonna try and go back to sleep,” Bucky promises. “Thank you.” 

“For what?” Steve asks, puzzled. “Oh. That, um. Yeah. Anytime.” 

Bucky lies down, but he doesn’t really doze off until he feels Steve wrap his skinny limbs around him. His mind is at peace.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky sees some of his old friends, and they become new again.

They don’t talk about it: the intimacy, the closeness that can only come from physical contact typically shared between people who are more than they are. It doesn’t become part of the new routine they’ve built up together, the new  _ Steve and Bucky _ they’ve made that isn’t quite the   _ SteveandBucky  _ they once were. They have their friendship during the day, when the sun is out shielding them from the darkness promised to make its way to them hours later. But, the night, however; the night is different.

 

At this time, they aren’t quite lovers, but they aren’t just friends: they remain in a confusing limbo just in between. They are a gray area. 

 

Sometimes, Bucky forgets that it isn’t real. He gets so caught up in skin moving hot and fast against skin, or heated breath shared between opened-mouthed kisses, that he lets his mind wander away from the fact that this is all for him - and not quite in the way he wishes it would be. Steve does not want Bucky’s broken body for himself, rather, he only wants what’s best for  _ Bucky _ . Bucky selfishly accepts this help, aches for it even on the nights he doesn’t need it.

 

He should stop. 

 

(He doesn’t.)

 

\----

 

“Sam wants to know how you’re doing,” Steve says one day when they’re huddled up on Bucky’s couch. 

 

“Oh,” Bucky replies. 

 

“Maybe you should try talking to them. Our friends,” Steve clarifies. “They really, really would love to see you again, Buck.” 

 

“Steve,” Bucky sighs, moving his arm from its place around Steve’s slim shoulders. “We’ve talked about this.”

 

“I know you don’t think you’re ready, but-” 

 

“No, you  _ don’t  _ know, obviously, or you wouldn’t be asking about it,” Bucky’s voice is more tired than anything as he rejects Steve’s offer, because he can never be truly upset with Steve, even when everything inside of him wants to be. “I can’t - I can’t  _ do _ that anymore. The people thing.” 

 

“What about me?” Steve asks. 

 

“You’re not ‘people’. You’re…” And Bucky can’t find the words to describe all of the things Steve is to him, so he doesn’t try. “Steve.” He says simply, hoping that his friend will understand all the emotion and honesty that goes into that admission. 

 

Steve looks at him in a way he never has - at least, not ever while it was light outside. He cups Bucky’s face in one hand, uses his other to brush stray strands of hair out of his face, and kisses him, deep and meaningful and real. 

 

“I don’t need this right now,” Bucky informs him. 

 

“I know,” Steve replies, staying close. “ _ I _ do.” And then he’s pulling Bucky in all over again and Bucky decides to shut off his brain and let his body do the thinking.

 

\----

 

“How have you been, James?” Tabitha asks, in the same voice she always does at the beginning of these sessions.  

 

“Different.” Bucky says, because he isn’t quite sure if the word is  _ good _ just yet, but he’s definitely different. 

 

“Oh?” She asks, sounding a little startled. “Different… how? Good different? Bad different?”

 

“I don’t know,” He says honestly. “Good, I think? Maybe neither.”

 

“That’s okay,” She tells him, scribbling something down onto that secret clipboard he so desperately wishes he could look at. “Do you have any idea  _ why  _ you’re feeling different today?” 

 

Bucky hesitates before he answers. How much can he tell her before it’s considered oversharing? Is he supposed to talk about other people during these sessions? Up until now, he’s never had to worry about this sort of thing because there were no other people to speak of. 

 

Fuck it. 

 

“I, um. Got back in touch with an old friend a few weeks ago,” He answers, making sure not to give too much away all at once. 

 

“A few weeks?” She repeats. “James, we do these sessions twice weekly. Why haven’t you mentioned them yet?” 

 

“I didn’t feel different until now,” He says vaguely. 

 

“Okay. Do you want to talk more about this friend?” Bucky nods. “We’ll start with the basics. What’s their name?” 

 

“Steve.” 

 

“Alright, and how did you meet Steve?” 

 

“We, um, grew up together. I saved him in a fight when we were kids, and we’ve been friends ever since,” This is, of course, and extremely shortened version of the real story, because Bucky doesn’t much feel like telling her all the gory details of how they stayed together through everything, relied on each other for everything and were everything for each other. “Until I shipped out, I mean.”

 

“You’ve mentioned that your friends have tried to get in contact with you since you got back. Did you end up getting back in touch with them, or just Steve?” She asks. 

 

“Just him.” 

 

“Why?”

 

Bucky inhales and rests his hands in his lap, fidgets with the pillow lying there. “People make me… nervous, usually. I panic around them. I can’t think straight. Steve, though… he makes it easier, instead of harder. Does that make sense?” 

 

“You feel safer around Steve than with other people.” She simplifies his words for him, which he is grateful for. Words are another thing he has trouble with these days. Bucky nods. “That makes a lot of sense, actually. Trauma survivors with depression and anxiety issues often do tend to get close to specific people, all while pushing away the majority of others. I feel like this describes your situation pretty well, do you?” 

 

“So, I’m a pretty much a hermit?” 

 

“Not necessarily,” She says simply. Bucky is smart enough to know that that means something like _ ‘You are, but you shouldn’t be,’ _ and he doesn’t want to hear something he already knows, so he doesn’t bother asking for clarification. 

 

“You’ve been coming to me for a few months now, and there’s something we’ve never directly discussed,” Tabitha says after only a few seconds of silence. She continues before Bucky has the chance to object, saying, “I know that your trauma is tough to tackle head on, but there isn’t really another way to go about the recovery process. You, as always, have the option to refuse, - I never want to make you talk about something you aren’t ready to talk about - but I do truly think that tackling the root is the most efficient way to rip out a tree.” 

 

Bucky doesn’t reply. 

 

“You don’t have to say anything today, if you aren’t ready,” She amends quickly. “Just… whenever you’re ready. This is all on your own schedule.” 

 

Bucky nods again, but he knows he won’t ever be ready. If he opens his mouth, the words that fall out can’t ever be taken out. He can’t let anyone know what happened out there, not fully. He won’t give anyone that power over him. 

 

\----

 

“I wanna see them again,” Bucky admits to Steve one day. He curses the way his voice cracks in the middle of his sentence, even with all the mental preparation he put into making himself say it aloud. “Your friends.” 

 

“They’re you’re friends, too, y’know,” Steve points out. It’s painfully obvious that he’s trying to hide how hopeful he is about this, and Bucky can’t decide if that’s cute or sad. “When, um. Do you know when you’d wanna see them?” 

 

Bucky swallows. He feels his body tensing involuntarily. “Soon, maybe? I don’t know. I don’t want to run out of this… adrenaline, or motivation, I guess, that I’ve got built up right now. Does that make any sense?” He asks desperately. 

 

“Yeah, absolutely. Hold on, let me send a text really quick, and then we can start making actual plans.” Steve leans forward on the couch to grab his phone from the coffee table and stays hunched over there, moving his thumbs rapidly over his screen as he types out what Bucky is sure is some variation of  _ Guys, Bucky’s finally ready to be a normal person again _ . 

 

Then Steve is leaning back again, resting his head back on Bucky’s lap and at least pretending to pay attention to what’s on TV in front of them, and Bucky thinks that maybe this isn’t as big a deal as he’s made it out to be. Maybe he’ll see them and it’ll be just like old times, like no time has passed at all.

 

\----

 

It’s not just like old times. 

 

Steve insists on having everyone over to his house rather than going out somewhere, because he knows how Bucky is about crowds (or people in general) these days, which is fine by him. The less humans that see him on a regular basis, the better. 

 

Clint shows up first, along with Nat, and when he sees Bucky for the first time his face does this  _ thing _ , this thing that just screams  _ I didn’t expect you to be this visibly fucked up _ , until Natasha nudges him with her elbow and he straightens his expression. Then, he does what he probably thinks is the normal thing to do, what _ is  _ probably the normal thing to do, and he goes in for a hug. Every one of Bucky’s instincts kick in at once and he practically jumps away from it. 

 

“Um,” Bucky manages, feeling the strong need to explain himself. “I don’t- with the touching and-” 

 

“Bucky doesn’t really feel comfortable with a lot of physical contact.” Steve supplies for him. Bless Steve. 

 

“Y-yeah,” Bucky confirms. “Sorry.” 

 

“Oh. Well, that’s okay, man,” Clint says, trying and failing to look unbothered. “We just missed you a lot these past few years. It’s really good to see you again.” 

 

“Trivia night just isn’t the same without your vast knowledge of movies from the forties,” Natasha adds light heartedly. “Steve was carrying the whole team on his back before you stole him away from us.” 

 

“That is why I keep him around,” Bucky tries. “He reads me Judy Garland film synopses to get me to come down from my nightmares.” 

 

Joking must not be Bucky’s thing anymore, he thinks, because the small smiles on everyone’s faces from Nat’s comment fade very quickly after Bucky’s.  _ Shit. _

 

“Okay,” Steve says after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. “I think someone else is at the door. I’m gonna go get that.” 

 

At first, Bucky figures he’s just making that up as an excuse to get out of this incredibly awkward situation, but then Sam and Rhodey both come into the kitchen at the same time, followed by Steve. 

 

“Sorry we’re late,” Rhodey apologizes on the trio’s behalf. “Tony here decided that this was a very important event, and that it required his most expensive bottle of whiskey.” 

 

“We’re both pretty sure that he just wanted an excuse to mention that he  _ has _ a ‘most expensive bottle of whiskey’.” Sam adds.   

 

Just then, Tony enters the apartment, holding what Bucky can only assume is the famed liquor proudly.

 

“Hello, all,” Tony greets. “I have alcohol, who wants some?” 

 

Clint mutters something that sounds like  _ ‘Thank God’ _ and that makes Bucky smile a little bit. Everyone else in the room seems to agree with him, and they all either partake of what Tony has brought or go to find something in Steve’s kitchen. 

 

“How about you, Soldier?” Tony asks for total inclusion. 

 

Bucky shakes his head. “I can’t really drink anymore. Messes with my, um, medication. Thanks for offering-” 

 

“What do they got you on? Acebutolol? Diazepam? Oh, Jesus,  _ Escitalopram _ ?” Tony asks, somehow managing to sound curious rather than prying.  

 

“I just switched to Cymbalta and, um… Lopressor, I think it is?” Bucky tells him, because if Tony asks then it must be okay to talk about now, right? 

 

“Oh, that’s a beta-blocker, right? My psych’s been talking to me about getting on one of those,” Tony reveals casually. “They working for you so far?” 

 

“Y-yeah, I think so,” Bucky answers, unused to talking for so long with someone other than Steve. “They don’t completely stop the panic, but they make it a little easier.” 

 

“Good to know. Thanks, Buckaroo,” Tony says. “And, by the way, if you ever want to sort out the whole arm situation, Stark Industries has been drawing up some blueprints on prosthetics and we’re just about ready to launch beta testing. Just something to think about.” 

 

The thing Bucky had forgotten about Tony Stark is that he has this way of letting you know he cares without ever actually  _ telling _ you, preferring instead to help you under the ruse that he has nothing better to do, and that can be comforting in its own weird way. “I’ll think about that,” Bucky replies. 

 

Tony leaves him to join the others in the kitchen, and Steve takes his place almost instantly, as if he’d just been waiting for his chance to check on Bucky (which is probably exactly what he had been doing, Bucky realizes).

“You talked to Tony?” Steve poses it as a question, though he obviously already knows the answer. Bucky nods anyway. “How’d that go?” 

 

“It went… good, actually. We talked about medication, for the most part,” Bucky tells him.

 

“Medication?” Bucky nods again. “Why?”

 

Bucky shrugs at this. “We were just comparing notes. I dunno.”

 

“But you weren’t  _ uncomfortable _ or anything, right?” 

 

“I was fine,” Bucky promises. “You don’t have to worry about me so much, okay? These are your friends. It’s more important for you to be comfortable with them than it is for me.” 

 

Steve looks at him for a long moment, and the attention makes Bucky shift on his feet. But then Steve lets out a sigh and says, “Okay, Buck,” and then they’re joining the small group in the other room. 

 

“Hey, man. Tony told us you don’t drink anymore, right?” Clint asks, to which Bucky nods. “Alright, you got anything against sodas? Looks like Steve’s got ginger ale and root beer in his fridge.” 

 

“C’mon, man, you can’t just go through someone’s fridge like that,” Sam objects. 

 

“It’s for  _ Bucky _ , so I’m sure Steve doesn’t mind,” Clint justifies. “Do you, Steve?” 

 

“Go ahead,” Steve permits, cheeks turning just the slightest bit red. 

 

“Ginger ale would be good, thanks,” Bucky tells them, smiling despite his quiet tone. A green can is given to him, and he quickly realizes that opening it is going to be a struggle with only one arm.

 

Steve also realizes this, and so he wordlessly opens it for him just as Bucky is considering some creative ways to do so himself. He could’ve done it, he thinks, but he’s grateful he didn’t have to. And if anyone else notices his struggle, they don’t mention it, and he’s grateful for that too. 

 

They’re all making the short walk from Steve’s kitchen to his living room when Tony pulls Bucky to the side. 

 

“Saw you having trouble with that,” He gestures to the can of pop, “earlier. Stark prosthetics, man. Just something to think about.” And then he’s joining the group again, laughing loudly at God knows what has just happened to someone (Clint, maybe?), and Bucky stands there for just a second too long trying to process what he’s been offered. 

 

\----

 

“You did really, really well tonight, Buck,” Steve praises him after everyone has finally left. “I’m real proud of you, you know that?” 

 

“I just talked to a few people without freaking out so bad,” Bucky deflects reflexively. “Not much to celebrate there.” 

 

“There is, though,” Steve insists. Bucky is pulled closer until he can feel all of the ribs that poke out of Steve’s side through the thin fabric of his shirt. “This has been a long time coming for you. You’ve worked really hard to get to this point, and I’m proud of that.  _ You _ should be proud of that.”

 

Bucky doesn’t really answer so much as he nuzzles his head further into Steve’s chest. He’s rewarded with a sweet kiss to his forehead and long fingers running through his hair.  

 

“Get some rest, Bucky,” Steve says softly. “You deserve it.” 

  
There’s still a tight knot of anxiety in Bucky’s stomach, but he does his best to push it down. He lets himself be held, lets himself enjoy it.  _ I deserve it, _ he thinks when he finally falls into sleep.  _ I deserve it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks if you're reading this. It's very appreciated, along with your feedback.


End file.
